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OF 

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FROM    AVALON 
$tnU  ©tjjer  Poems 


FROM   AVALON 

% 

poems 


BY 

EMILY   HUNTINGTON   MILLER 


CHICAGO 

A.   C.   McCLURG  AND   COMPANY 
1896 


COPYRIGHT, 

Bv  A.  C.  McCLURG  &  Co. 
A.D.  1896. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FROM  AVALON 7 

IN  APRIL 9 

A  HYMN  OF  ORCHARDS     ........  10 

IN  LAVENDER I2 

PERSEPHONE J4 

A  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT 16 

HEIMWEH l8 

AT  BREAK  OF  DAY 20 

A  HAYING  SONG 22 

BEFORE  THE  DAWN 24 

AT  SEA 26 

IN  THE  GARDEN 28 

A  WOMAN 30 

THE  MATIN  MOON 31 

MOTHERHOOD 32 

MY  BEACON 34 

HER  WORLD 36 

WITHOUT 38 

IF  I  SHOULD  WAKE 39 

5 


762993 


Contents 

PACK 

SHELTER 40 

MARGARET 42 

THE  WELL  OF  PRAISE 44 

LOVE  AND  LIFE 48 

MY  SAINT 50 

IN  SICKNESS 52 

JUST  TO  FORGIVE 53 

ANOINTED  EYES 54 

LIFE'S  PARABLE 55 

IN  HIS  KINGDOM 56 

IN  PORT 58 

"FALLEN  ON  SLEEP" 60 

AT  THE  KING'S  GATE 62 

BENEDICITE  ! 64 

JUDGMENT 66 

HEPATICA 67 

ON  ARACHNE'S  STAIR 68 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LOVE 70 

A  RUIN 72 

BLOSSOM  TIME 74 

THE  THROSTLE'S  NOTE 75 


FROM    AVALON 

T  KNOW  it  well,  that  green  and  tranquil  isle, 

Encircled  by  the  arms  of  summer  tides 
That  sway  and  smile,  and  whisper  of  the  sea. 
Not  far  away  it  lies  ;  its  fragrant  shades 
Shot  through  by  golden  lances  of  the  sun, 
And  stirred  by  gentle  airs  that  wander  still, 
On  noiseless  feet,  to  find  the  chamber  fair 
Where,  couched  on  mystic  herbs  and  asphodel, 
Healed  of  his  hurts,  King  Arthur  lies  asleep. 
Oft  have  I  found  its  shelter.     When  the  stress 
Of  warring  winds,  and  sharp  tumultuous  storms 
Have  left  me  spent  and  breathless  on  the  field, 
Then  my  swift  thoughts,  for  healing  and  for  rest, 
Bear  me  away  to  peaceful  Avalon. 
The  sweet  enchantments  of  the  bounteous  queen 
Have  changed  the  shifting  waves  to  fields  of  rye, 
And  seas  of  meadow-grass,  that  softly  break 
Against  the  low-browed  wall  that  shuts  about 
The  blessed  trees,  veiled  in  eternal  bloom. 
7 


From  Avalon 

The  bees  make  happy  tumult,  and  the  air 

Quivers  with  gauzy,  bright-winged,  dancing  motes, 

And  small  white  butterflies  go  shimmering  by, 

Silent  as  souls  amid  the  scented  boughs. 

The  skies  bend  low ;  the  pale  moon  idly  drifts, 

A  phantom  ship,  to  some  celestial  port, 

And  night  and  day  flow  on  in  still  content, 

Through  blissful  years  in  changeless  Avalon. 


IN    APRIL 

A  PRIL  !    that 's  the  time  o*  year 
^*      When  the  earth  is  waking  ; 
When  with  every  morn  you  see 
Signs  there  's  no  mistaking. 

When  the  wind  is  blowing  south, 
And  the  rain's  soft  pelting 

Sets  the  little  brooks  a-brim, 
And  the  last  snow  melting ; 

When  the  grass  begins  to  show 

Greener  in  the  hollows  ; 
When  the  robin  calls  his  mate 

And  the  bluebird  follows ; 

When  the  wild  geese  scream  at  night, 
To  the  northward  hasting  ; 

When  the  maple  bark  is  wet 
With  the  sweet  sap  wasting  — 

April !   that 's  the  time  o*  year 

Life  and  love  are  stirring  ; 
Throb  of  heart,  and  leap  of  blood, 

Rush  of  soft  wings  whirring  ! 
9 


A    HYMN   OF    ORCHARDS 

TP    through    the     wood-paths,    with     bird    songs 
^  about  her, 

May  has  come  softly,  the  beautiful  child  ! 
Skies  that  were  joyless  and  sullen  without  her, 

Broke  into  sunshine  above  her  and  smiled. 

Green  on  the  uplands  the  wheatfields  are  springing, 
Cowslips  are  shining,  and  daisies  are  white ; 

Through  the  broad  meadows  the  waters  are  singing 
Brimming  with  melody,  flashing  with  light. 

Ruddy  with  clover  the  orchards  are  growing, 
Flecked  by  the  shadows  that  tremble  and  glide  ; 

Round    their   gray    trunks,    when   the  west    wind  is 

blowing, 
Sways  the  young  grass  in  a  billowy  tide. 

Strong  as  the  arms  of  a  giant,  yet  tender, 
See  what  a  treasure  they  lift  to  the  sky  ! 

Take  your  red  roses,  aflame  with  their  splendor, 
We  love  the  apple-trees,  robin  and  I. 
10 


A  Hymn  of  Orchards 

Where  is  the  lip  that  has  worthily  sung  them  ? 

Tinted  like  sea-shells,  or  whiter  than  snow, 
Bees,  all  the  day,  as  they  linger  among  them, 

Drowsy  with  nectar,  are  murmuring  low. 

Pillowed  beneath  them  I  dream  as  I  listen, 
How  the  long  summer  above  them  shall  shine, 

Till  on  the  boughs  the  ripe  fruitage  shall  glisten, 
Tawny  and  golden,  or  redder  than  wine. 

In  the  bright  days  of  the  mellow  September, 
How  we  shall  shout  as  we  gather  them  in, 

Hoarding  their  wealth  for  the  dreary  December, 
Heaping  them  high  in  the  cellar  and  bin. 

Then  when  the  snow  in  the  moonlight  is  gleaming, 
Up  from  the  darkness  the  apples  we'll  bring, 

Praising  their  sweets,  where  the  firelight  is  beaming 
Globes  of  rich  nectar,  a  poet  might  sing. 

Tales  of  the  vikings  our  lips  will  be  telling ; 

Yet,  when  the  sagas  are  done,  we  shall  say, 
"  Here's  to  the  land  where  the  summer  is  dwelling, 

Here's  to  the  apple-tree,  monarch  of  May." 


IN   LAVENDER 

THOUGH  but  the  yellow  folds  which  keep 
-*•      The  crumbling  dust  that  once  was  bloom, 
And  wafts  of  summer  sweetness  creep, 

Like  wandering  ghosts,  to  haunt  the  room. 

And  straight,  with  dreaming  eyes,  I  see, 

In  homely  garb  of  russet  brown, 
The  maid  whose  fingers  robbed  the  bee, 

To  strew  with  sweets  her  wedding  gown. 

Fairer  than  any  flower  that  blows, 
With  bright  face  lifted  to  the  day, 

Led  on  by  blessed  thoughts,  she  goes 
Smiling  along  the  garden  way. 

The  lilies  cluster  on  the  stalk, 

The  sucking  bees  make  merry  rout 

Among  the  thyme,  beside  the  walk, 
And  beds  with  wall-flowers  set  about. 

The  sunshine  fills  the  brooding  sky, 
The  birds  their  nesting  raptures  speak, 

And  little  careless  winds  go  by, 

With  warm,  light  touches  on  her  cheek. 

12 


In  Lavender 

Her  apron  gathered  on  her  arm, 
Her  dainty  fingers  gleaning  slow, 

She  walks  in  youth's  eternal  charm, 
This  little  maid  of  long  ago. 

And  none  but  those  who  love  can  guess 
What  thoughts  her  quiet  pulses  stir ; 

Or  what  dear  hopes  her  visions  bless, 
Among  the  beds  of  lavender. 


PERSEPHONE 

OTILL  the  old  story  lives.      When  first  I  see, 
^      Lighting  the  grasses  by  the  garden  gate, 
My  Lady  Daffodil,  among  her  maids 
Stand  tall  and  slim,  her  fair  head  bowed  in  dreams, 
Her  yellow  tresses  slipping  from  her  hood, 
Mists  veil  the  sunshine,  and  pale  ghosts  arise, 
Swift,  silent  shades,  that  bear  me  from  the  day 
Into  the  dim,  sweet  world  where  they  abide. 
From  a  low  doorway,  where  the  roses  press, 
A  tangled  thicket,  to  the  rough  gray  stone, 
Steps  slow,  with  smiling  eyes,  a  woman  dear, 
A  little  maid  fast  clinging  to  her  hand. 
The  sound  of  far-off  bells  is  in  the  air, 
And  the  faint  gurgle  of  a  brook  that  slips, 
Laughing  at  its  own  gladness,  through  the  wall 
That  shuts  the  garden  from  the  orchard  gray. 
The  robins  sing,  the  peach-tree  scatters  down 
Her  small  pink  shells  to  strew  the  tender  grass. 
The  iris,  with  her  purple  blossoms,  winds 
In  royal  'broidery  along  the  path, 
Caught  here  and  there  by  knots  of  tulips  gay, 
And  cool,  sweet  stars  of  snowdrops,  set  between 
M 


Persephone 

The  crowding  ranks  of  budding  daffodils  — 

Oh,  woman  dear,  among  the  saints  in  Heaven  ! 

Oh,  little  maid,  whose  feet  have  wandered  on 

Beyond  the  iris-path  !   with  each  new  spring 

That  wakes  the  daffodils,  I  walk  with  you 

In  shadowy  realms,  where  Love  with  Memory  dwells. 


A   SONG   IN  THE   NIGHT 

T  N  the  wintry  garden  stood  the  rose-tree, 
•*•      Swaying  in  the  tempest  to  and  fro, 
Stark  and  bare  of  all  her  summer  leafage, 
All  her  life-blood  frozen  in  its  flow. 

Yet,  like  jewels  in  their  icy  casings, 

Crowding  buds  were  clinging,  small  and  gray, 
And  a  voice  went  singing  through  the  darkness, 

"  Sleep,  my  rose  !  for  you  shall  have  your  day. 

"  Brooding  mists,  with  close  warm  touch,  shall  wake 

you 

To  the  kisses  of  the  bounteous  rains, 
Life  with  faint  new  pulses  stir  within  you, 

Strange,  sweet  thrills  go  trembling  through    your 
veins. 

"  All  the  bliss  and  rapture  of  the  summer, 
All  its  balm  and  glory  you  shall  know  ; 

With  your  soft  cheek  rounding  into  beauty, 
And  your  pale  tints  deepening  into  glow. 
16 


A  Song  in  the  Night 

"  Winds  at  last  your  scented  leaves  may  scatter, 
Yet  your  heart  shall  hold  its  ripening  seed, 

So,  perchance,  in  frosty  autumn  weather, 
From  your  scarlet  cup  a  bird  may  feed. 

"Shut  within  the  happy  round  of  nature, 
Flower  or  planet  cannot  fall  away  ; 

Death  is  but  the  crown  of  life's  completeness. 
Sleep,  my  rose  !  for  you  shall  have  your  day.' 


HEIMWEH 

A  T  Naples  is  a  garden  by  the  sea, 
**•      Warmed  with  the  lavish  splendor  of  the  sun, 
And  filled,  from  wall  to  wall,  with  wanton  growth 
Of  roses,  white  and  crimson  in  their  bloom. 
A  broken  fountain  spills  a  slender  stream 
Of  limpid  water  from  its  crumbling  brim  ; 
And  a  fair  naiad,  fallen  from  her  throne, 
Lies  smiling,  in  her  green  nest  of  the  grass, 
At  the  young  violets,  crowding  round  her  knee. 
There,  when  the  days  are  still,  and  glad  content 
Gathers  her  happy  children  to  her  heart, 
I  sit  alone,  to  feel  the  healing  sun 
Send  its  warm  pulses  through  my  veins  like  wine, 
Finding  in  birds,  and  bees,  and  fearless  things, 
That  come  and  go  along  the  tangled  ways, 
Good  company,  to  cheer  my  solitude. 
But  when  mine  ear,  attent  to  finest  sounds, 
Hears  in  the  blossom-laden  boughs  o'erhead 
The-  plaintive  jargon  of  the  toiling  bees, 
And  when,  through  all  the  heavy-scented  air, 
The  faint,  pervasive  breath  of  violets  near 
Steals  like  a  dream  of  some  remembered  bliss, 
18 


Heimweh 

Oh!  then  the  blue  sea  and  the  bluer  sky 
Fade  into  gray,  behind  a  mist  of  tears, 
Through  which  I  see  our  rugged  orchard-trees, 
Flushed  with  the  tender  beauty  of  the  May, 
Where  robins  build,  and  chide  the  oriole, 
That  in  and  out,  among  the  drifted  blooms, 
Repeats  his  golden  syllable  of  song, 
Till  my  heart  wakes  with  one  tumultuous  throb, 
And,  filled  with  longing,  cries  for  home  and  thee. 


AT   BREAK    OF   DAY 

/^\UT  of  a  dream  of  music  tender  — 
^-^      Fairy  flutes  to  a  breathing  low  — 
I  wake  to  see,  with  its  growing  splendor, 
The  opal  heart  of  the  morning  glow. 

The  crystal  sea  of  the  air  is  flowing 
And  ebbing  away  on  its  silent  shores  ; 

The  swallows  ripple  its  coolness,  going 
With  the  dipping  of  dusky  wing  for  oars. 

Webs  of  pearls  on  the  meadow  grasses, 
White  mists  trailing  along  the  stream, 

Floating  up  to  the  mountain  passes, 
Vanishing  slow,  in  a  golden  gleam. 

I  see  the  faint  blue  glint  of  the  river  : 

The  fog- wreaths  lift  in  the  wak'ning  breeze  ; 

The  shadows  tremble  and  dance  and  quiver, 
In  changing  dapples  beneath  the  trees. 


At  Break  of  Day 

I  catch  the  scent  of  the  locusts  dropping, 
And  the  cinnamon  roses,  all  a-blow ; 

Of  the  tall  red  balm,  where  the  bees  are  stopping, 
And  the  beds  of  the  purple  thyme  below. 

Out  of  the  East  the  opal  tender 

Burns,  and  deepens,  and  steals  away  ; 

And,  crowning  the  summer  land  with  splendor, 
The  sun  comes  in  at  the  gates  of  day. 


A    HAYING   SONG 


the  meadow  floats  the  mist, 
^-^      Rolling  softly  away  ; 
Up  on  the  hills  the  sun  has  kissed 

Brightens  the  yellow  day. 
Faintest  breath  of  the  morning  breeze, 
Shakes  the  dew  from  the  orchard  trees, 
Sways  the  bough  where  robin  is  saying, 
"Wake  !  oh,  wake  !  it  is  time  for  haying." 

Cows  are  lowing,  in  haste  to  try 

Pastures  moistened  with  dew  ; 
Swallows  twitter,  and  brown  bees  fly, 

Scenting  the  blossoms  new. 
Meadow-larks  out  of  sight  repeat 
Over  and  over,  "  Sweet  !    oh,  sweet  ! 
Grass,  and  clover,  and  lilies  blowing, 
Round  my  nest  like  a  forest  growing." 

Through  the  meadow  the  mowers  tread 

With  a  sturdy  stroke  and  true  ; 
And,  oh  for  the  lilies  so  tall  and  red, 

When  the  gleaming  scythe  sweeps  through  ! 


A  Haying  Song 

Balancing  over  the  grasses  light, 

Dropping  with  laughter  out  of  sight, 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "   hear  the  blackbird  singing, 

"  Give  me  a  day  when  scythes  are  swinging." 

In  fragrant  furrows  the  grass  is  laid  ; 

The  golden  sun  climbs  high. 
The  mowers  sharpen  the  ringing  blade, 

And  glance  at  the  western  sky. 
Hark  the  quail,  with  his  warning  call, 
Whistles  loud  from  the  mossy  wall ; 
"  Mower,  whet !  while  the  sun  is  shining  ; 
Storms  may  come  with  the  day's  declining." 


BEFORE    THE    DAWN 

VX7RAPPED  in  the  shadows  of  the  leafy  wood 

The  sweet  day  sleeps,  while  all  her  downy 

brood 

Of  fearless  birds,  close  nestled  to  her  breast, 
In  safe  content  within  their  shelter  rest. 

A  silver  film  floats  o'er  the  tranquil  lake, 
Lest  the  young  morn  too  early  come  to  wake, 
With  his  light  kiss,  and  touch  of  wooing  grace, 
The  rosy  flush  along  her  dimpling  face. 

Then  from  the  dusk  where  woods  and  waters  meet 
A  little  wind  steals  out,  with  noiseless  feet, 
Whispering,  "  O  happy  birds  !    the  world  is  new  ; 
With  stainless  skies,  and  balm  of  summer  dew. 

"  They  are  all  gone,  those  noisy,  hurrying  men, 
Whose  heavy  feet  tread  loud  on  moor  and  fen  ; 
Whose  hands  break  through  your  bowers,  in  haste  to 

spy 

Your  woodland  secrets  with  a  curious  eye. 
24 


Before  the  Dawn 

"  The  thin  air  floats  in  silence  rare  and  sweet, 
For  your  pure  harmonies  again  made  meet ; 
No  jarring  sound  the  perfect  stillness  breaks  ; 
Sing,  happy  birds  !  before  the  day  awakes." 

The  little  wind  runs  on,  and  one  swift  note 
Leaps,  low  and  glad,  from  some  soft  pulsing  throat, 
Yet  tremulous,  as  if,  from  visions  deep, 
A  child  laughed  out,  and  turned  again  to  sleep. 

An  answering  call,  and  then  a  peal  of  song 
From  a  far  covert  ringing,  full  and  strong ; 
Then  song  on  song,  the  widening  chorus  grows, 
A  flood  of  music,  swelling  as  it  flows. 

Swift  waves  of  melody,  that  break  in  spray 
Of  silver  notes,  tossed  up,  and  caught  away, 
Till  the  sweet  tumult  slowly  sinks  at  last 
To  silence,  trembling  with  its  rapture  past. 


AT   SEA 

TVTO  moon  the  star-lit  deeps  to  sound  ; 

No  shore  to  mar  the  perfect  round ; 
With  dark  sails  curved  and  prow  a-light, 
The  ship  speeds  onward  through  the  night. 

The  parted  wave  glides  swiftly  back, 
Forever  closing  on  our  track, 
And  crowding  pearls,  an  endless  tide, 
Slip  from  the  furrow's  curling  side. 

Faint  tropic  winds,  with  ghostly  feet, 
The  shadowy  deck  unchallenged  beat, 
Flit  through  the  dusky  sails,  and  speak 
With  soft,  sweet  lips,  against  my  cheek. 

Deep  unto  deep,  with  listening  soul 
I  hear  a  solemn  cadence  roll ; 
Soft,  rhythmic  pulses,  throbbing  slow, 
From  depths  above  to  depths  below. 

One  full,  mysterious  life,  whose  sound 
Sweeps  through  creation's  utmost  bound, 
Thrills  to  each  sobbing  breath,  and  hears 
In  rippling  waves  the  swing  of  spheres. 
26 


At  Sea 

No  far-off  isle  of  being  hides 
Beyond  the  circling  of  its  tides  ; 
No  barren  shore  but  sometimes  glows 
With  drifted  bloom  of  summer  rose. 

O  watchful  helmsman  !  if  we  go 
To  reef  or  port  what  heart  can  know, 
Save  that  eternal  currents  keep 
Their  steady  course  through  every  deep. 

So,  lapped  in  happy  dreams  I  lie, 
The  world,  a  bubble,  floating  by  ; 
The  silent  sky,  the  whispering  sea, 
But  hollowed  hands  to  shelter  me. 


IN   THE   GARDEN 

f\   DUSKY  bees!  that  murmur  on  in  sleep, 
^^      Hearing  the  wind  stir  in  the  leaves  overhead, 
Scenting  the  boughs,  with  blossoms  laden  deep, 
Waken  !  for  she  is  dead  ! 

Dead,  in  the  cloistered  stillness  of  her  room, 

Brimming  with  moonlight  and  with  perfumed  air ; 
The  wandering  breath  of  all  the  garden's  bloom 
Floating  about  her  there. 

I  think  the  stars  know,  for  that  way  she  went, 

Her  white  soul  wafted  upward,  through  the  night, 
Till  its  pure  radiance  with  their  glory  blent, 
Light  vanishing  in  light. 

All  the  flowers  know  ;  their  waxen  faces  press 
Against  her  cheek,  unmoved  by  any  breath  ; 
And  on  her  breast,  in  dainty  loveliness, 
That  has  no  fear  of  death. 

But  you,  from  out  your  elfin  land,  have  brought 

For  us  the  secret  of  the  honeyed  dew ; 
Since  for  our  joy  your  patient  skill  has  wrought, 
Can  sorrow  touch  you  too  ! 
28 


In  the  Garden 

But  late  she  sat  to  mark,  with  smiling  eyes, 

Your  busy  multitude  make  holiday  ; 
And  said,  "  These  fairy  artisans  are  wise, 
Who  turn  their  toil  to  play." 

««  They  tell  old  tales,  in  Andalusian  rhymes, 
And  dance  to  tinkling  zithers,  as  they  go ; 
For  their  fine  sense  can  hear  the  blossom-chimes 
When  the  wind  sweeps  their  snow." 

But  late  !  but  late  !  pale  shadow  of  delight ! 

Faint,  mocking  echo  of  a  music  fled. 
O  dreaming  earth  !  O  silent,  smiling  night  ! 
Waken  !  for  she  is  dead. 


A   WOMAN 

"  T    LOVE,"  she  said,  with  her  faint,  sweet  smile, 

"  But  I  shall  not  narrow  this  life  of  mine  ; 
Or  bid  my  spirit  its  thirst  beguile 

With  the  joys  that  women  still  count  divine. 
Why,  I  am  a  soul  !  I  am  part  of  God  ! 

I  doubt,  and  question,  —  have  wings  to  mount ; 
Do  you  think  I  shall  only  moil  and  plod, 

And  fill  my  cup  at  the  common  fount  ? ' ' 

That  was  only  a  year  and  a  day  — 

Last  night  her  fingers  were  softly  pressed 
On  the  downy  head  of  a  babe,  that  lay 

With  warm,  wet  mouth  at  her  gracious  breast. 
"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  there  is  rarer  bliss 

Where  the  long  bright  cycles  of  heaven  unroll  ? 
Or  any  wonder  more  deep  than  this, 

To  share  with  God  in  a  human  soul  ?  " 


THE   MATIN   MOON 

S~\  UT  of  the  east  she  came  ;  her  curving  prow 

^-^      Bright  with  the  radiance  of  the  under- world 

Where,  all  unseen,  her  golden  shallop  coursed 

Among  the  stars.      Around  her  softly  swelled 

The  pearly  tides  of  morn,  and,  walking  near, 

One  tranquil  planet  bare  her  company. 

The  cool  gray  east  began  to  pulse  and  glow 

Deep  in  its  opal  heart  with  rosy  fires, 

Slow,  wavering  lights,  whose  growing  splendor  swept, 

A  mist  of  gold,  to  dim  her  pale  sweet  ray  ; 

And  lovely  still,  and  lovelier  as  she  went, 

She  sailed  away  into  the  brightening  blue, 

Freighted  with  dreams,  that  wait  the  evening  star. 


MOTHERHOOD 

O  WEET  Mary  !  Mother  of  my  Lord  ! 

Through  the  faint  light  thy  pictured  face, 

Touched  with  the  glory  and  the  grace 
Born  of  the  Angel's  wondrous  word, 

Draws  my  eyes  upward  to  its  place. 

What  dost  thou  dream,  O  woman  dear, 
So  late  a  child,  whose  careless  feet 
Found  the  green  paths  of  girlhood  sweet, 

Nor  guessed  what  rapture,  drawing  near, 
Would  fold  thy  heart  in  bliss  complete  ? 

They  ponder  much,  these  mother  souls 
That  clasp  their  secret  close,  nor  tell 
The  strange,  exulting  thoughts  that  swell, 

A  soundless  tide,  whose  fulness  rolls 
To  shores  where  blessed  visions  dwell. 

And  since  that  hour  when  first  for  thee 
The  hope  of  all  the  ages  smiled, 
And  love  and  loss  were  reconciled, 

No  mother's  heart  but  thrills  to  see 
A  world's  redeemer  in  her  child. 
32 


Motherhood 

Sweet  Mary,  if  some  glistening  wing 

Showed  through  the  darkness,  dim  and  pale, 
And  angel  voices  cried,  "  All  hail  ! 

Lo,  the  swift  days  to  thee  shall  bring, 

Brimmed  with  love's  wine,  life's  holy  grail," 

I  think  I  should  but  lift  mine  eyes, 
And  see  again  thy  radiant  face 
Shine,  still  and  tender,  from  its  place, 

And,  grown  like  thee,  serene  and  wise, 
Should  thank  my  Lord  for  that  dear  grace. 


33 


MY    BEACON 

T  LOOKED  across  the  bay, 

When  the  tide  came  over  the  bar, 
And  saw,  through  the  rain,  the  harbor-light 
Shine  like  a  great  white  star. 

I  trimmed  my  cottage  lamp 
And  sighed  at  its  tiny  spark, 
Thinking  the  ships,  for  leagues  away, 
The  harbor-light  could  mark. 

But  mine  —  a  little  way 
Along  the  treacherous  sands, 
And  the  murky  night  took  up  the  ray 
Quenched  in  its  pitiless  hands. 

A  keel  that  touched  the  shore, 
A  carol,  a  footstep  light, 
And  one  stood  safe  at  the  open  door, 
And  there  was  no  storm  nor  night. 
34 


My  Beacon 

(t  Dear  heart/'  my  lover  said, 
His  hair  with  the  sea-fog  damp, 
"  Across  the  bar,  with  the  rising  tide, 
I  steered  by  thy  guiding  lamp." 

Fair  shone  my  cottage  lamp  ; 
A  wonderful  star  to  me. 
For  dearer  my  lover's  wave-worn  boat 
Than  all  the  ships  on  the  sea. 


35 


HER   WORLD 

T>EHIND  them  slowly  sank  the  western  world, 
•*-^     Before  them  new  horizons  opened  wide  ; 
"Yonder,"  he  said,  "old  Rome  and  Venice  wait, 

And  lovely  Florence  by  the  Arno's  tide." 
She  heard,  but  backward  all  her  heart  had  sped, 
Where  the  young  moon  sailed  through  the  sunset  red  ; 
"Yonder"   she   thought,    "  with  breathing  soft  and 

deep. 
My  little  lad  lies  smiling  in  his  sleep." 

They  sailed  where  Capri  dreamed  upon  the  sea, 

And  Naples  slept  beneath  her  olive-trees  ; 
They  saw  the  plains  where  trod  the  gods  of  old, 

Pink  with  the  flush  of  wild  anemones. 
They  saw  the  marbles  by  the  master  wrought 
To  shrine  the  heavenly  beauty  of  his  thought. 
Still  rang  one  longing  through  her  smiles  and  sighs  : 
"  If  I  could  see  my  little  lad* 's  sweet  eyes  !  " 

Down  from  her  shrine  the  dear  Madonna  gazed, 

Her  baby  lying  warm  against  her  breast. 
"What   does   she  see?"   he  whispered;    "can    she 

guess 

The  cruel  thorns  to  those  soft  temples  pressed  ?  " 
36 


Her  World 

"Ah,    no,"   she   said;    "she    shuts    him    safe    from 

harms, 

Within  the  love-locked  harbor  of  her  arms. 
No  fear  of  coming  fate  could  make  me  sad, 
If  so,  to-night,  I  held  my  little  lad." 

"  If  you  could  choose/'  he  said,  "  a  royal  boon, 
Like  that  girl  dancing  yonder  for  the  king, 

What  gift  from  all  her  kingdom  would  you  bid 
Obedient  Fortune  in  her  hand  to  bring  ? " 

The  dancer's  robe,  the  glittering  banquet  hall 

Swam  in  a  mist  of  tears  along  the  wall. 

"  Not  power,"  she  said,  "  nor  riches  nor  delight, 

But  just  to  kiss  my  little  lad  to-night  !  " 


37 


WITHOUT 


E,  in  the  twilight  of  a  wintry  day, 
^^      One  passed  me  silent,  struggling  on  his  way, 
With  head  bowed  low,  and  hands  that  burdens  bore, 
And  saw  not  how,  a  little  space  before, 

A  woman  watched  his  coming,  where  the  light 
Poured  a  glad  welcome  through  a  window  bright, 
Set  thick  with  flowers  that  showed  no  fairer  bloom 
Than  her  sweet  face,  turned  outward  to  the  gloom. 

Yet  when  his  foot,  with  quick,  impatient  stride, 
But  touched  the  step,  the  door  swung  open  wide  ; 
Soft  hands  reached  swiftly  out,  with  eager  hold, 
And  drew  the  dear  one  in  from  storm  and  cold. 

O  love  !  whose  eyes,  from  some  celestial  height, 
Behold  me  toiling,  burdened  through  the  night, 
Tender  of  every  blast  at  which  I  cower, 
Yet  smiling  still,  to  know  how  brief  the  hour  ; 

Keeping  within  thy  radiant,  love-lit  home, 
Some  glad  surprise  to  whisper  when  I  come  — 
'T  is  but  a  breath  till  I  the  door  shall  win, 
And  thy  dear  hands  will  swiftly  draw  me  in. 


IF   I   SHOULD   WAKE 

TF  I  should  wake,  on  some  soft,  silent  night, 

When  the  west  wind  strayed  from  the  garden's 

bloom 

To  creep,  with  fitful  touches,  through  the  room 
And  see  thee  standing  in  a  space  of  light, 
Making  the  dusk  about  thee  faintly  bright, 
With  the  old  smile,  like  starlight  in  the  gloom, 
Would  my  heart  leap  to  claim  thee  from  the  tomb, 
Without  a  doubt  to  jar  its  full  delight  ? 
Or  should  I  wait,  with  longing  arms  stretched  wide, 
And  know,  with  sudden  trembling  and  amaze, 
Some  subtle  change  in  all  thy  being  wrought 
Since  thou  by  death  wast  touched  and  glorified  ? 
Then  come  not  back,  lest  I  should  go  my  ways 
Bereft  anew  of  love's  dear,  changeless  thought. 


39 


SHELTER 

A    SINGER  by  the  sudden  tempest  blown 
^^      Out  from  the  summer  lands  of  his  content, 
Walked  'mid  the  jostling  multitude  alone, 
And  mourned  his  bitter  fortunes  as  he  went. 

"  O  heart,'*  he  sighed,  "  whose  wishes  were  so  small, 
What  didst  thou  ask,  that  thou  shouldst  be  denied  ? 

Only  a  quiet  spot,  where  sunbeams  fell, 
A  little  shelter  in  a  world  so  wide." 

A  flock  of  startled  doves  rose  at  his  feet, 

And  fluttered  upward  through  the  gusty  air ; 

Striving  in  vain  against  the  blast  to  beat, 
To  reach  their  nests  above  the  belfry  stair. 

Then  stooping  to  the  frowning  prison  walls, 
They  sought  the  grated  windows,  one  by  one  ; 

And  huddled  close,  with  tender  brooding  calls, 
They  smoothed  their  ruffled  plumage  in  the  sun. 

Their  fearless  eyes  shone  soft  as  summer  stars, 
Through  purple  shadows  of  the  deepening  night ; 

And  a  wan  face,  behind  the  prison  bars, 
Flushed  with  a  sudden  gladness  at  the  sight. 
40 


Shelter 

The  Singer  went  his  way,  no  more  alone, 
But  smiling  at  the  sweetness  of  his  thought  : 

"O  heart  of  mine,"  he  said,  "hast  thou  not  known 
The  wisdom  to  thy  gentle  comrades  taught  ? ' ' 

"  This  is  but  shelter,  where  to-day  we  wait, 
Not  the  dear  haven  that  we  fain  would  see  ; 

Yet,  to  the  quiet  heart,  a  prison  gate 

A  peaceful  covert  from  the  storm  may  be. 

"  Some  morn,  it  matters  not  if  soon  or  late, 

Thou  shalt  take  wing  with  swift  exultant  sweep  ; 

And  find  thy  kindred  and  thy  lost  estate, 

Beyond  life's  prison-bars  and  donjon  keep." 


MARGARET 

'  I SHROUGH    the    doorway    shone    the    summer 
morning, 

Rich  with  bloom  to  tempt  the  honey  bees ; 
Small  blue  waves  ran  whispering  to  the  sedges  ; 

White  sails  curved  to  feel  the  eager  breeze. 

I  remember  still  the  loons'  weird  laughter, 
And  the  gray  gulls,  wheeling  overhead  ; 

Then  a  low  voice,  full  of  pity,  saying  softly, 
"  Did  they  tell  you  little  Margaret  was  dead  ? " 

"  Little  Margaret  !  —  you  see  the  daisies 
Growing  knee-deep,  on  the  windy  hill, 

How  she  loved  their  bonny,  road-side  beauty, 
She  is  dead,  and  they  are  blowing  still." 

"If  a  bird  dropped  sudden  into  silence, 
One,  with  ear  attent,  would  miss  its  lay ; 

Is  there,  anywhere,  a  heart  of  nature 

That  can  grieve  for  sweetness  passed  aw*y  ? " 
42 


Margaret 

"  You  remember  all  her  winsome  beauty, 
God  had  made  her  very  sweet  and  fair ; 

Are  such  graces  wholly  lost  in  dying  ? 

Do  you  think  she  can  be  sweeter  over  there  ?  " 

"  And  if  you  and  I  should  one  day  meet  her, 
Crowned  and  radiant,  by  the  river-side, 

Do  you  think  that  we  should  surely  know  her 
For  the  self-same  little  Margaret  who  died  ?  " 

Only  tears  for  answer,  while  the  thrushes 
Filled  the  leafy  covert  with  their  glee  ; 

Idle  butterflies  went  drifting  past  us, 
Golden  blossoms,  blown  along  the  lea. 

In  its  green  cup  lay  the  shining  water, 
All  its  blue  waves  blossomed  into  spray ; 

On  the  hill  the  crowding  ranks  of  daisies 

Swayed  like  white-robed  children  at  their  play. 

Through  the  doorway  shone  the  summer  morning, 

Not  a  tint  of  all  its  freshness  fled ; 
Only  we  two,  sitting  in  our  silence, 

Mourned  that  little  Margaret  was  dead. 


43 


THE    WELL    OF    PRAISE 


T_T  ASSAN  the  Just  within  his  garden-bound 

Sat  where  the  fountain  made  a  pleasant  sound  ; 

The  white  roofs  glistened  in  the  noontide  heat, 
The  air  in  tropic  pulses  fiercely  beat  ; 

But  glossy  limes  and  thick  pomegranates  made 
Within  the  garden-walls  a  grateful  shade, 

And  the  broad  pavement  by  the  fountain's  brim, 
Beneath  its  clustered  palms,  lay  cool  and  dim. 

A  carpet  from  the  looms  of  fair  Cathay  — 
A  flowery  splendor  —  on  the  marble  lay, 

And  near  at  hand,  companion  of  his  rest, 
Wrought  like  a  serpent,  with  a  jewelled  crest, 

His  favorite  pipe,  whose  cloudy  odors  seemed 
The  subtle  spirit  of  a  mystic  dream. 

Tall  flagons  held  the  cool  and  sparkling  draught 
Of  harmless  nectar,  by  the  prophet  quaffed  ; 
44 


The   Well  of  Praise 

And  crystal  vases,  heaped  with  purple  grapes, 
Through  silver  network  showed  their  graceful  shapes. 

.  Near  by  a  holy  man,  with  reverent  look, 
Read  in  the  pages  of  an  ancient  book ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  as  Hassan  heard, 
He  murmured  to  the  oft-repeated  word 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  and  with  forehead  raised 
Toward  the  holy  place  devoutly  gazed. 

"  Father,"  at  length  he  said,  "  of  gold  and  store 
Allah  hath  given  me  till  I  crave  no  more  ; 

"Seven  goodly  sons  around  my  table  stand, 
And  one  fair  daughter,  pearl  of  all  the  land  ; 

"An  upright  walk  hath  wrought  me  love  and  fame  — 
Hassan  the  Just  the  people  call  my  name  ; 

"  Therefore,  that  Allah  may  have  fitting  praise, 
A  mosque  within  my  garden  will  I  raise  ; 

"  So  may  the  thanks  I  offer  day  by  day 

Join  with  the  prayers  that  true  believers  say." 

"  Son,"  said  the  holy  man,  "for  praise  and  prayer 
The  faithful  find  their  temples  everywhere, 

45 


The   Well  of  Praise 

<(  And  not  alone  from  sacred  mosque  uprise 
The  words  that  reach  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

"  But  wouldst  thou  teach  to  many  a  scoffing  tongue 
The  song  of  praise  it  never  yet  has  sung, 

"  Bid  in  the  desert  sands  a  fountain  burst, 

Whose  cooling  drops  may  stay  the  wanderer's  thirst. ! 


II 


Hassan  the  Just  from  out  his  treasures  told 
A  camel's  burden  of  the  yellow  gold, 

And  patient  men  beneath  the  master's  eye, 
Digged  for  the  spring  whose  fountains  never  dry, 

Until,  at  length,  it  cleft  the  rock  and  lay 
A  living  jewel,  in  the  eye  of  day. 

They  built  it  round  about  on  every  hand 
With  solid  stone,  against  the  drifting  sand, 

And  cunning  workmen  from  the  palace  came 
And  carved  on  every  stone  the  holy  name. 

An  hundred  camels  from  the  fruitful  Nile 
Brought  the  fat  earth  that  makes  the  desert  smile, 
46 


The   Well  of  Praise 

And  Hassan  planted,  when  the  work  was  done, 
Seven  goodly  palm-trees  —  one  for  every  son  ; 

So  where  the  hungry  waste  before  was  seen 
The  Well  of  Praise  stood  ringed  in  living  green. 


Ill 

Still  o'er  the  track  whose  ghastly  landmarks  lie 
In  whitening  bones  beneath  the  traveller's  eye 

Creeps  with  slow  pace  the  caravan  that  bears 
Spices  and  myrrh  and  rich  Arabian  wares; 

And  still  the  fountain  draws  its  rich  supply 
From  the  cool  depths,  unseen  by  human  eye, 

And  green  and  fair,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
The  palm-trees  stand  about  the  Well  of  Praise. 

The  swarthy  merchant  lifts  his  longing  eyes 
To  see  from  far  the  slender  columns  rise  ; 

And  while  the  thirsty  camels,  kneeling,  drink, 
Their  master  reads  upon  the  fountain's  brink, 

Ere  to  his  lip  the  precious  draught  he  brings : 
"  Allah  is  great,  who  gave  the  water-springs." 


47 


LOVE   AND   LIFE 

T    OVE  chose  a  face  clear-lighted  by  the  soul, 

^~~*     And  wrote  on  cheek  and    brow  her  thoughts 

divine  : 

"  The  stars  shall  vanish  from  the  heaven's  wide  scroll, 
Time's  story  end  —  eternity  is  mine." 

Life  came,  and,  at  her  bidding,  pain  and  care 
Blurred  the  fair  page,  its  rosy  hues  effaced, 

Hiding  the  tender  story  written  there 

With  heavy  lines,  by  ruthless  fingers  traced. 

Death  came,  and  breathed  upon  each  crossing  line 
Till,  sunk  in  frost,  it  paled  and  vanished  slow  ; 

And  lo !  once  more  Love's  prophecy  divine 

From  the  scarred  brow  shone  forth  with  heavenly 
glow. 

And  when  men  looked  upon  the  coffined  face, 

They  said,  "  He  lies  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss  ; 

Such  calm  he  wore  in  manhood's  early  grace ; 

So  smiled  his    lips    when    youth    and    hope    were 
his." 

48 


Love  and  Life 

Under  the  down-dropped  lids  there  strangely  crept 
Serener  light  than  falls  from  star  or  sun, 

And  a  glad  whisper  through  the  silence  swept, 
"  Time's  story  ends  when  Love's  is  but  begun." 


49 


MY   SAINT 

HP  HIS  is  her  picture,  framed  about 

•^       With  palms  and  shadowing  wings, 
Set  in  a  softly  curtained  niche, 
Apart  from  common  things. 

And  though  her  hand  no  lily  clasps, 
Her  brow  no  aureole  wears, 

She  is  my  saint,  whose  steadfast  eyes 
Turn  all  my  thoughts  to  prayers. 

She  walked,  as  in  a  cloister's  shade, 

Along  life's  dusty  way, 
And  rosaries  of  blessed  deeds 

Slipped  through  her  hands  all  day. 

The  incense  of  her  prayers  arose 

Before  a  household  shrine, 
And  common  mercies  to  her  taste 

Seemed  hallowed  bread  and  wine. 

The  sprinkling  of  her  pitying  tears 

On  sinful  souls  was  shed  ; 
Her  heavenly  patience  was  the  ban 

From  which  all  evil  fled. 


My  Saint 

For  serge  and  ashen  weeds  she  wore 
The  shining  robes  of  love  ; 

The  angels  keep  her  sisterhood 
In  calendars  above. 


IN   SICKNESS 


to  me,  tender  voice  ;  for  when  I  sleep 
^      My  soul  goes  drifting  o'er  a  shadow  deep 
Whose  ghostly  islands,  in  its  tides  set  low, 
Sink  and  dissolve  like  snow. 

No  friendly  ships  on  cheerful  errands  haste 
To  bear  me  company  across  that  waste, 
But  through  the  cold  gray  hollows  of  the  deep 
My  lonely  course  I  keep. 

Somewhere  beyond,  I  think,  lies  blessed  land, 
But,  tired  and  bruised,  I  cannot  reach  the  strand  ; 
A  tossing  boat,  whose  sailor  lieth  pale, 
Wrapped  in  his  useless  sail. 

From  those  chill  shades  this  pleasant  world  of  ours, 
With  winds,  and  stars,  and  'broidery  of  flowers, 
With  pomp  of  summer  noons,  and  morns  of  May, 
Seems  dim  and  far  away. 

Sing  to  me,  tender  voice,  that  as  I  go 
The  music  of  thy  song  may  follow  slow  ; 
A  silver  cord  to  moor  me  to  thy  shore 
Lest  I  come  back  no  more. 
52 


JUST   TO    FORGIVE 

TVT  OT  a  hard  master  did  I  deem  my  Lord, 
•*•  ^       But  just,  since  he  had  pledged  his  kingly  word, 
And  written  in  the  changeless  rolls  on  high, 
"The  soul  that  sinneth,  it  shall  surely  die." 

So  when,  in  dreams,  I  heard  the  solemn  call 
Summon  my  spirit  to  the  judgment  hall, 
Trembling  I  cried,  "  In  this  my  utmost  need 
Still  with  his  Justice  let  his  Mercy  plead." 

Lo,  to  the  door,  with  greeting  hands,  there  came 
One  with  a  welcome  in  my  Lord's  dear  name. 
Grasping  her  garment's  hem,  I  poured  my  plea, 
"  Oh,  tender  Mercy  !  let  me  come  with  thee  !  " 

"Justice  must  smite,"  —  but,  with  a  radiant  look, 
She  showed  the  pages  of  the  judgment-book  ; 
"  I  am  his  Justice  ;  hast  thou  never  heard 
'  Just  to  forgive  '  is  written  in  his  word  ?  " 


53 


ANOINTED    EYES 

HPHEY  brought  it  from  the  quarry,  where  it  slept,  — 
•*•       A  block  of  marble  without  flaw  or  stain,  — 

And  all  the  jostling  crowd,  intent  on  gain, 
Praised  it  for  whiteness,  like  the  snows,  wind-swept, 
In  cold  blue  hollows  from  the  sunlight  kept. 

There,  to  its  side,  two  friends  in  converse  came : 
One  was  a  sculptor,  with  a  hand  made  wise 
To  shape  immortal  dreams  for  mortal  eyes, 
And  one  a  poet,  with  a  soul  whose  flame 
Was  fed  by  sorrow  that  no  lip  might  name. 

One  said  :   "O  marvel !  wrought  for  man's  delight 
By  the  kind  gods,  from  some  most  precious  clay, 
I  see  thy  snows,  dissolving,  slip  away 
From  lovely  shapes  of  angels,  strong  and  bright, 
Their  buoyant  robes  upborne  by  pulsing  light." 

The  other,  musing,  answered  :   "  As  they  go 
In  wide  procession  through  the  heavenly  space, 
One,  looking  westward,  veils  her  radiant  face  ; 
Yet  by  my  soul's  full,  swelling  tides,  that  flow 
Beneath  her  faint,  sweet  light,  my  Love  I  know." 
54 


LIFE'S   PARABLE 

A  SHES  for  beauty  !  all  her  hair's  bright  gold, 
**•     Her  red  mouth  curving  to  the  heart' s  light  mirth, 
Her  lilied  brow,  her  cheek  of  loveliest  mould, 
Ashes  for  beauty  !   't  is  the  doom  of  earth. 

But  lo,  the  wild  rose  stretched  her  arms  to  reach 
The  low,  green  mound,  with  tender  grasses  rife, 

And  my  heart  read  the  lesson  of  her  speech, 
"  Beauty  for  ashes  !  't  is  the  gift  of  life." 


55 


IN    HIS   KINGDOM 

A     SOUL  set  free  came  trembling  through  the  night 
*"*      And  stood,  all  naked,  in  the  judgment-light. 

"  Alas,"  she  cried,  "  so  pressed  with  life  was  I, 
No  space  I  found  to  teach  me  how  to  die. 

•'  Unshriven  I  came  ;  —  I  was  so  full  of  care 
No  time  had  I  for  penance  or  for  prayer. 

"  I  dwelt  where  men  were  in  such  evil  case 
Their  woful  eyes  still  held  me  to  my  place. 

"  Nor  did  I  heed  my  garments'  fret  and  stain, 
If  so  I  might  a  little  ease  their  pain. 

"  And  scarce  my  thought  from  haunting  care  could  stay 
To  say  at  morn,  s  Ah,  Lord  !  another  day. ' 

"  But  flying  still,  and  followed  hard  by  fear, 

I  loved  and  toiled,  and  waked  to  find  me  here ! " 

Then  round  the  naked  soul  the  judgment-light 
Grew,  like  a  lily's  bloom,  to  garments  white  ; 
56 


In  His  Kingdom 

And  a  new  dawn  of  rapture  and  surprise 

Shone  through  the  doubt  and  sorrow  of  her  eyes, 

As  a  voice  whispered,  "  Since  thou  didst  not  fear 
To  drink  my  cup  on  earth,  come  share  it  here ! ' ' 

And  gazing  on  a  face,  unknown  till  now, 
She  cried,  exulting,  "  Master  !  is  it  Thou  ?  " 


57 


IN   PORT 

SEPTEMBER  7,  1892 

"  I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air, 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  his  love  and  care/* 

A  NXIOUS  and  spent,  and  doubtful  of  the  helm, 
•^^      And  beating  slow  across  a  waste  of  sea, 
Often,  athwart  our  track,  there  dropped  a  bark 
Moving  straight  on  before  some  heavenly  wind 
That  filled  the  sails  and  fanned  the  helmsman's  brow. 
Sometimes,  on  tranquil  morns,  we  heard  his  song, 
Serene  and  sweet,  yet  throbbing  with  a  note 
That  shook  the  heart,  for  still  he  sang  of  home. 
Sometimes  we  hailed  him,  ere  he  passed  from  sight. 
"  Sailor  !  "  we  cried,  "  tell  us  where  lies  thy  port !  ' 
And  still  came  back  the  answer,  clear  and  strong : 
"I  know  not  where,  yet  am  I  homeward  bound. 
This  is  His  sea ;  its  pulses  rise  and  fall 
As  His  breath  moves  them,  and  its  currents  set 
Steady  and  deep,  to  bear  me  where  He  will." 
58 


In  Port 

So  he  sailed  on ;  and  once,  when  stars  were  large 
And  luminous,  through  changeful  purple  mists, 
Rocked  by  slow  waves  that  bore  him  from  our  sight, 
And  calm  with  peace  that  lay  too  deep  for  smiles, 
He  drifted  gently  to  a  palm-girt  shore, 
And  knew,  at  last,  where  God's  fair  islands  lie. 


59 


"FALLEN   ON   SLEEP" 

NOVEMBER  4,  1895 

A    TRAIL  of  mist  on  the  low  gray  deep, 
•*•*•     A  blur  of  rain  on  the  land, 
And  the  breath  of  flowers  where  he  lies  asleep, 
With  one  white  rose  in  his  hand. 

The  strong,  sweet  singer,  who  laid  aside 
His  lute  till  the  dawn  should  come, 

But  drifted  away  with  the  morning  tide, 
And  left  it  forever  dumb. 

And  what  are  the  wonders  his  eyes  have  seen, 
And  what  are  the  secrets  he  knows, 

He  never  will  tell  as  he  lies  serene, 
Just  clasping  the  sweet,  white  rose. 

But  not  in  the  splendor  of  seraphs  he  seems, 
This  child-hearted  poet  we  knew, 

In  some  happy  garden  of  blossoms  and  dreams 
He  wanders  with  Little  Boy  Blue. 
60 


"Fallen  on  Sleep" 

They  smile  at  the  toys  that  they  left  for  a  night, 
The  playthings  of  youth  and  of  age, 

For  the  man  is  a  child  in  the  kingdom  of  light, 
And  the  child  is  as  wise  as  the  sage. 

And  whatever  marvels  in  dying  may  be, 

This  lover,  so  tender  and  true, 
Will  turn  from  the  raptures  of  angels  to  see 

The  face  of  his  Little  Boy  Blue. 


61 


AT   THE   KING'S   GATE 

TV/TORNING  by  morning  to  his  gates  I  came, 
A      Taking  my  portion  from  his  liberal  store, 
Glad  of  my  crumbs,  and  asking  for  no  more. 
Scarcely  my  lips  their  stammering  thanks  could  frame  ; 
For  what  was  I  that  I  should  think  to  claim 
Such  audience  from  the  King,  whose  good  ran  o'er 
To  fill  each  empty  soul  that  sought  his  door, 
And  with  the  blessing  spake  no  word  of  blame  ? 
But  if,  some  morn,  his  angel  guards  had  cried  : 
"  The  King  hath  nothing  for  thy  needs  to-day, 
Since  from  thy  desert  life  no  flowers  unfold, 
And  all  thy  fields  lie  barren,  far  and  wide," 
I  should  have  said,  and  humbly  gone  my  way  : 
"  He  is  the  King,  to  give  or  to  withhold." 

Swift  from  the  shining  presence  entered  One 
With  spotless  robes,  of  pearl  and  lilies  wrought. 
I  know  not  if  he  spake,  or  if  the  thought 
Grew  in  his  smile,  as  blossoms  in  the  sun  : 
"  Why  shouldst  thou  come,  O  child,  as  beggars  come, 
Who  take  the  gift  but  count  the  love  for  naught  ? 
62 


At  the  King's  Gate 

This  is  thy  Father's  house.      For  thee  he  sought, 
Waiting  thy  coming  till  the  day  was  done. 
He  careth  for  thee.      Ask  for  large  supplies, 
Put  on  the  robe  and  ring,  and  cast  away 
Thy  garments  stained  with  tears,  with  sin  defiled  ; 
And  if  his  wisdom  all  thy  prayer  denies, 
Secure  in  love,  look  up  and  trusting  say  : 
c  He  is  the  King,  yet  am  I  still  his  child.'  " 


BENEDICITE ! 

'"pOWARDS  the  saffron  gates  of  sunset 

Goes  the  sweet  day  ; 

Slowly  the  crimson  flushing  of  her  footsteps 
Fades  from  the  hills  away. 

Home  from  the  ruddy  fields  of  clover 

Troop  the  wild  bees, 

And  small  birds  brood  beneath  the  leafy  shadows 
Among  the  orchard  trees. 

Behind  the  westward-looking  mountains 

Sinks  the  red  sun, 

And  voices  wander  through  the  twilight  saying, 
"  Peace  !  peace  !  the  day  is  done." 

Oh,  weary  day  !  take  hence  thy  burdens, 

Thy  haunting  care  ; 

We  would  commune  alone  with  our  hearts'  treasures, 
And  tell  them  o'er  in  prayer. 

God  bless  you  all,  O  well-beloved ! 

He  knoweth  best 

To  heal  your  losses  with  his  great  consolings, 
And  give  his  children  rest. 
64 


Benedicite  ! 

Soon  shall  this  little  life  be  ended, 

And  that  begun, 

And  angels  chant  above  your  quiet  sleeping, 
"  Peace  !  peace  !  the  day  is  done." 


JUDGMENT 

T  TE  said,  when,  on  that  solemn  day  of  days, 

With   sudden  flame  the    darkened  skies    were 

cleft, 

Two  should  be  busy  at  their  household  ways, 
And  one  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 

Always  with  fear  and  bated  breath  I  thought 
Of  those  two  women,  grinding  at  the  stone,  — 

One  to  the  King's  bright  presence  swiftly  caught, 
And  one  left  trembling  in  the  murk  alone. 

But  now  I  know  that  judgment  trumps  may  sound, 
And  some  be  called,  and  some  be  left  alone, 

And  the  dull  world  keep  on  its  daily  round, 
Nor  ever  guess  the  King  has  claimed  his  own. 

For  now  I  know  that,  when  the  King  draws  near, 
Only  his  own  with  conscious  gladness  thrill  ; 

Only  his  own  the  angel's  summons  hear, 
Above  the  ceaseless  clangor  of  the  mill. 
66 


HEPATICA 

^PHROUGH  the   hushed  bosom    of  the   Mother 

Earth, 

Brooding  her  darlings  in  the  dreamless  night, 
Stole  with  slow  beat,  faint  pulses  of  delight, 
The  throb  of  life  impatient  for  its  birth, 
The  stir  of  wings  eager  to  try  their  worth, 

And,  with  soft  flutter  of  their  garments  bright, 
Her  laughing  babes  crept  outward  to  the  light, 
Wide-eyed  and  wondering  at  the  wintry  dearth. 

The  rough  winds  tossed  the  dead  leaves  at  their  feet, 
The  melting  snows  in  the  moist  hollows  lay, 
And  overhead  stretched  grim  the  cheerless  skies. 
Yet  in  their  fragile  beauty,  brave  and  sweet, 
They  smiled  upon  the  changeful  April  day, 
And  made  a  spring-time  with  their  fearless  eyes. 


67 


ONARACHNE'S   STAIR 

/^\N  the  yellow  grasses,  I, 
^•^     Lapped  in  blissful  dreaming,  lie. 
Above  my  head 
With  white  sails  spread, 
The  thistle's  fleet,  by  light  winds  sped, 
Floats  gayly  by. 

What  enchanted  highways  run 
'Twixt  my  vision  and  the  sun! 
Arachne's  stair, 
A  pathway  rare, 

For  Fancy's  vagrant  feet  to  share, 
Dull  care  to  shun. 

Silver  threads  that  wavering  fly, 
Floating  upward  to  the  sky, 
Lead  through  the  air, 
She  knows  not  where, 
But  mounts  to  see  what  pleasance  fair 
Beyond  may  lie. 
68 


On  Arachne's  Stair 

Heart,  forego  thy  useless  thrift ! 

Up  the  stairway  follow  swift ! 
Perchance  thy  feet 
May  find  some  sweet, 
Low  shore  where  tides  in  music  beat, 
And  blossoms  drift. 

Hand  in  hand  with  breezes  gay, 
Speed,  my  happy  thoughts,  away  ! 

And  bring  to  me 

Some  note  of  glee, 
From  tuneful  pipes  of  Arcady, 

Or  shepherd's  lay. 


69 


THE    HOUSE    OF   LOVE 

TT  stood  with  windows  open  to  the  light, 

And  all  the  winds  ran  laughing  through  its  halls. 
Set  in  such  splendor,  on  the  world's  fair  height, 

It  seemed  a  temple,  built  with  jasper  walls. 
Of  sun  and  moon  its  dwellers  had  no  need, 

Like  the  fair  bride,  Jerusalem  above, 
And  on  its  portals  he  who  ran  might  read 

This  blessed  legend  writ,  —  "  The  House  of  Love.' 

Once  in  the  dawning  of  a  summer  day 

Death's  glorious  angel  paused  beside  the  door, 
And  spake  no  word,  but,  as  he  went  his  way, 

There  came  a  sound  of  waves  along  a  shore, 
And  Love,  with  fearless  eyes  that  gazed  afar, 

Arose  and  followed  to  that  mystery, 
Filling  the  dusk  with  radiance  like  a  star 

That  shines  through  purple  mists  across  the  sea. 

Since  then,  the  door  stands  wide  :  the  sunshine  falls 
Where  last  his  feet  across  the  threshold  trod  ; 

And  wafts  of  sweetness  fill  the  silent  halls, 
From  little  smiling  flowers  that  light  the  sod. 
70 


The  House  of  Love 

Some  night  or  morn  my  listening  soul  will  hear 
'     The  old  familiar  footfall  on  the  stone, 
And  cry,  " O  Wanderer  !  forever  dear, 

I  feared  not,  quailed  not ;  art  thou  not  mine  own  ? ' ' 


A  RUIN 

JUST  here  it  stood  :  from  noise  afar, 
Set  on  the  green  hill's  sheltered  side, 
The  rifted  earth  still  keeps  the  scar, 
Healed  by  the  turf,  but  deep  and  wide. 

Here  was  the  narrow  path  that  led, 
Bordered  with  posies,  to  the  door, 

When  swaying  tulips,  gold  and  red, 
Flamed  in  the  tall  rank  grass  before. 

This  was  the  door-step,  rough  and  gray, 

Deep  sunken  in  the  weedy  sod, 
Where  blessed  feet  for  many  a  day 

On  household  errands  lightly  trod. 

Here  rose  the  chimney's  blue-wreathed  mouth 
Above  the  low  roof's  mossy  slope ; 

And  here  a  window,  looking  south, 

Shone  through  the  night,  a  star  of  hope. 

Here  was  the  garden's  goodly  show, 
Gay  marigolds,  and  purple  stocks, 

Pinks  and  sweet-williams,  all  a-blow, 
And  ranks  of  silken  hollyhocks. 
72 


A  Ruin 

Still  from  the  plum-tree's  boughs  the  breeze 
Shakes  down  in  May  the  fragrant  snow, 

And  flowers  that  tempt  the  gossip  bees 
Light  the  green  jungle  with  their  glow. 

Still  the  sweet  wind  of  summer  brings 
The  scent  of  clover  from  the  lea, 

And  still  the  robin  builds,  and  sings 
His  matins  from  the  maple-tree. 

Ah  !  dearer  nest,  so  rift  and  torn, 

What  art  could  build  your  walls  anew  ? 

Or  fill  the  dewy  summer  morn 

With  the  old  music  that  you  knew  ? 

The  skies  above  you  keep  no  track 

Of  vanished  wings,  that  soared  and  fled ; 

And  only  memory's  feet  come  back, 
Among  her  ruined  shrines  to  tread. 


73 


BLOSSOM'*  TIME 

^\NE  were  a  miracle  for  which  to  rear 

^^^    A  temple  where  a  white-robed  priest  might  say, 

"  Lo,  the  creative  spirit  moves  to-day, 
And  at  his  touch  fair  shapes  of  life  appear ; " 

Yet  this  soft  changeful  beauty,  year  by  year, 
Poured  from  the  lavish  bosom  of  the  May, 

Decks  the  brown  meadows,  and  the  orchards  gray, 
And  we  but  smile  to  note  the  spring  is  here. 

Delicate  odors  to  the  warm  air  cling, 
And  fine,  tumultuous  sounds  of  bees  that  speak, 

In  elfin  tongues,  of  Hybla's  honeyed  stream ; 
The  busy  oriole  cannot  wait  to  sing, 

But  tosses  upward  from  his  restless  beak 
Bubbles  of  music,  breaking  as  they  gleam. 


74 


THE   THROSTLE'S   NOTE 

"1 1  7HEN  evening  shades  were  falling, 
*  *       I  heard  the  throstle  calling, 
And  fluting  to  his  dear 
In  some  green  thicket  near, 
As  if  his  voice,  by  love's  own  rapture  taught, 
From  my  dear  maid  its  ecstasy  had  caught. 

When  morning  bells  were  ringing, 
I  heard  my  Sylvia  singing 
A-down  her  garden  way, 
With  pinks  and  posies  gay  ; 
And  in  her  song  my  listening  heart  could  hear 
The  throstle's  note,  a-fluting  to  his  dear. 


THE  END. 


75 


TALES  FROM  THE  ^GEAN. 

BY  DEMETRIOS   BIKfiLAS. 

Translated  by  Leonard  Eckstein  Opdycke.     With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  Henry  Alonzo  Huntington. 

i6mo,  258  pages.    Price,  $i.oa 


The  tales  in  this  volume  have  a  special  value  in  that  they  reflect  the 
Greek  life,  thought,  and  feeling  of  to-day.  They  have,  moreover,  a 
universal  interest  for  their  merit  as  works  of  literary  art.  They  are 
simple,  pure,  and  elevating.  Though  tinged  now  and  then  with  melan- 
choly, their  melancholy  is  of  the  kind  that,  instead  of  depressing,  buoys 
up  and  elevates  the  reader.  —  Commercial  Gazette,  Cincinnati. 

This  dainty  little  book  is  composed  of  several  tales  based  upon  the 
life  and  customs  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  ^Egean.  It  opens  up  a  new  and 
attractive  field  of  interest,  made  all  the  more  fascinating  by  the  strength 
and  vividness  of  the  sketches,  and  the  reality  and  truth  portrayed  in 
the  characters,  which  the  translator  has  carefully  preserved  throughout. 
—  Public  Opinion. 

Each  tale  is  dramatic,  and  has  as  distinct  a  plot  as  is  compatible  with 
short  limits.  There  is  no  moralizing ;  the  author  is  too  eager  to  tell  his 
story  to  stop  for  that.  The  book  should  find  a  wide  welcome  because  of 
its  novelty  and  high  literary  merit.  It  is  admirably  translated.  —  Literary 
World,  Boston. 

The  stories  are  delightfully  told  ;  humor  and  pathos  in  turn  call  forth 
our  admiration;  and  we  owe  our  thanks  to  the  publishers  for  having 
introduced  this  new  author  to  the  English  reading  public.  —  The  Boston 
Times. 

The  stories  are  fresh  and  striking,  simple  in  style,  elemental  in  their 
sympathetic  appeal.  —  Independent,  New  York. 

The  author  portrays  Greek  life  as  it  is  with  true  poetic  realism,  and 
depicts  the  defects  as  well  as  the  racial  virtues  of  his  countrymen.  His 
stories  are  like  so  many  dainty  water-colors,  —  almost  luminous  in  feeling, 
and  possessing  the  indefinable  attribute  called  "atmosphere."  —  Beacon, 
Boston. 

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THE  PRICE  OF  PEACE. 

A  Story  of  the  Times  of  Abab,  King  of  Israel. 
BY   A.   W.   ACKERMAN. 

I2mo,  390  pages.    Price,  $1.35. 


It  throws  valuable  light  upon  an  eventful  period  of  the  history  of  this 
wonderful  people,  and  presents  a  carefully  drawn  and  lifelike  picture  of 
a  biblical  character  too  little  known,  —  the  courageous  prophet  Micaiah. 
As  a  love  story  it  is  a  gem,  and  its  historical  value  is  marked.  —  Boston 
Advertiser. 

The  author  has  written  a  religious  narrative  of  more  than  ordinary 
interest.  The  period  is  the  most  picturesque  in  the  history  of  the  ancient 
Jewish  people.  —  Sun,  Baltimore. 

It  is  a  vivid  and  thrilling  picture  of  that  wild  and  distant  time,  and 
deepens  the  interest  of  the  reader  in  the  Bible  narrative,  while  in  no 
way  warring  against  his  rerverence  toward  it.  —  Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  stirring  events  in  the  time  of  Ahab  have  been  well  wrought 
together  in  this  book.  Micaiah  is  the  hero ;  Obadiah  is  skilfully  pre- 
sented, and  Elijah  appears  at  intervals.  We  regard  this  as  an  excellent 
work,  alike  as  a  story,  a  study  in  character,  and  a  picture  of  the  time.  — 
Sunday  Journal,  New  York. 

The  descriptions  of  the  region  are  good,  the  different  scenes  well 
depicted  and  lifelike,  and  the  lessons  inculcated  are  helpful  and  natural. 

—  Public  Opinion,  Washington. 

In  the  "  Price  of  Peace  "  we  have  a  new  presentation  of  the  character 
of  Micaiah,  who  is  the  hero  of  Mr.  Ackerman's  romance.  The  Bible 
gives  us  only  a  meagre  glimpse  of  the  man  ;  here  we  learn  to  know  him 
as  a  man  of  passions  like  unto  our  own,  but  wiser  and  greater  than  his 
fellows.  The  author  introduces  us  to  a  period  of  rare  interest,  and  we 
learn  much  of  Elijah,  Jehoshaphat,  and  King  Ahab.  More  than  all, 
our  interest  is  awakened  in  the  lovely  Ruth,  and  we  close  the  book 
regretfully  in  the  thought  of  leaving  her  and  the  hills  of  Zebulon.  — 

—  Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 


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THE  CRUCIFIXION  OF  PHILIP  STRONG. 

BY  CHARLES  M.  SHELDON. 

i2mo,  267  pages.    Price,  $1.00. 


The  hero  is  an  honest,  forceful  minister,  who  believes  that  he  should 
not  allow  his  church  to  be  simply  a  social  club.  His  efforts  to  stem  the 
tide  of  luxury  and  of  selfishness  are  told  in  a  way  that  will  hold  the 
reader  interested  to  the  end.  —  Chronicle  Telegraph,  Pittsburg. 

It  is  more  than  a  well-written  and  well-conceived  story;  it  is  a  gospel, 
or,  rather,  the  gospel  of  Christ  presented  in  living  form,  coming  in  con- 
tact with  human  life,  in  all  its  phases  and  with  the  great  problems  that 
to-day  agitate  the  mind  of  society.  ...  If  this  powerful  presentation  of 
truth  in  story  form  does  not  produce  a  profound  impression  on  the  read- 
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Dayton,  Ohio. 

The  story  is  one  of  intense  vigor  and  pathos.  It  will  secure  a  very 
wide  reading,  and  it  should  make  a  deep  impression  upon  every  reader 
and  produce  lasting  fruit.  —  The  Congregationalist,  Boston. 

An  original  and  realistic  story,  both  interesting  and  suggestive  of  earn- 
est thought.  —  The  Beacon,  Boston. 

The  story  is  often  pathetic,  sometimes  dramatic,  and  always  convincing. 
It  is  wholesome  reading  to  all,  and  instructive  to  those  who  are  led  to 
wrongly  believe  that  the  church  and  its  pastors  do  not  make  sacrifices 
for,  and  are  not  in  sympathy  with,  the  poor  of  the  world.  —  Chicago 
Record, 

The  book  abounds  in  powerful  and  convincing  arguments  for  right- 
eousness and  truth,  and  the  young  preacher  with  the  lofty  ideals,  though 
a  pathetic  figure  in  his  loneliness,  commands  respect  for  his  self-forget- 
fulness  in  a  noble  cause.  —Literary  World,  Boston. 

A  fine  piece  of  realistic  writing.  The  duty  of  the  Christian  and  the 
Christian  minister  is  clearly  unfolded.  —  Herald,  Chicago. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  McCLURG  £  Co.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR.  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


BEATRICE  OF   BAYOU   TgCHE. 

BY  ALICE  ILGENFRITZ  JONES. 

i2mo,  386  pages.    Price,  $1.25. 


A  capital  story,  full  of  vigor  and  subtle  knowledge  of  human  nature ; 
and  it  is  as  vivid  and  picturesque  as  the  Bayou.  —  Octave  Tkanet. 

The  author  writes  with  an  attractive,  graceful  style,  and  with  a  keen- 
ness of  observation  which  holds  the  reader's  attention.  This  love  story 
is  vigorously  told ;  the  heroine  is  a  girl  with  a  strong  sense  of  her  moral 
responsibility,  and  the  ethical  tone  of  the  story  is  very  high.  —Boston 
Journal. 

Mrs.  Jones's  writing  is  marked  by  gracefulness  and  by  considerable 
strength.  Her  descriptions,  both  of  persons  and  of  scenery,  are  uni- 
formly good  and  often  fine.  .  .  .  Take  it  all  in  all,  it  is  one  of  the  best  of 
stories.  —  State  Register,  Davenport. 

The  story  is  very  well  written,  and  is  entertaining,  though  inevitably 
sad.  There  is  nothing  exaggerated  in  it;  and  the  kindly  spirit  which 
often  existed  in  the  South  between  master  or  mistress  and  the  slave  is 
very  well  represented  by  the  family  to  which  Beatrice  and  her  old  grand- 
mother belonged. —  The  Beacon,  Boston. 

A  wonderfully  touching  and  pathetic  story  is  that  of  Beatrice.  It 
appeals  to  one's  sympathies,  while  it  arouses  admiration  for  the  purity 
and  sweetness  of  its  tone.  It  is  full  of  interest,  too,  and  while  its  pre- 
vailing tone  is  pathetic,  it  is  not  at  all  lugubrious.  It  is  in  every  way  a 
bright  and  delightful  work  of  fiction.  —  Journal,  Milwaukee. 

The  writer  has  plunged  into  some  of  the  omnipresent  racial  problems 
in  Louisiana  society,  and  portrays  graphically  the  miseries  of  a  clever 
and  charming  girl  whose  blood  has  the  African  taint.  —  Review  of 
Reviews. 

It  is  more  than  ordinarily  well  written,  full  of  fanciful  turns  of  phrase 
and  short,  charming  pen  pastels,  and  would  be  agreeable  reading  even 
were  the  story  a  less  pulse-quickening  one.  The  author's  style  is  char- 
acterized by  a  quaint  and  delicate  humor.  —  Commercial  Advertiser, 
New  York. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS, 

COR,  WABASH  AVE.  AND  MADISON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


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